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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480278">Fête</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/handfuloftime/pseuds/handfuloftime'>handfuloftime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossdressing, Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, James (Clark Ross) in a Dress, M/M, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:20:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/handfuloftime/pseuds/handfuloftime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Antarctic expedition celebrates the new year.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Francis Crozier/James Clark Ross</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fête</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The signal flags stir in the weak breeze, adding a bit of color to the cloudy sky. Edward examines them with a critical eye. The berg is fluttering with flags—good for a bit of background decoration, anyway, to cheer their dreary surroundings. He nods to himself, and then has to quickly sidestep to get out of the way of a sailor carrying a set of skittles. </p>
<p>Their iceberg is swarming with activity, the paths cut through the ice well-trodden by now. Edward inspects it all as he makes his gradual way back to <i>Erebus</i>. A day’s worth of industrious work has transformed a few acres of rough ice into a veritable city. They’ve cleared a flat area sufficient  for a dozen people to dance in, and another for whatever games the men have cooked up; the ice has been heaped into a low building that Beeman and Wall are busily stocking with barrels. Nearby, Davis is putting the finishing touches on a painted sign. Ice sculptures are dotted here and there, though it’s a shame that some of the more elaborate ones have already collapsed.</p>
<p>Astonishing, to think of a party out here under the sky, in the midst of the pack, where a wrong turn in the weather could dash them to pieces. Even good old Parry had never been that ambitious. But if there’s one thing their expedition isn’t lacking, it’s ambition.</p>
<p><i>Erebus</i> is just as busy, now that everyone has mostly recovered from last night’s celebrations. On his way to James’s cabin, Edward passes by two of the mates putting the finishing touches on their costumes: Oakeley in a marine’s uniform, Smith in a powder-blue dress that has probably crossed the Arctic circle as well as the Antarctic. He’d never asked James where the costumes came from—they just appeared in the hold, as inevitable as lemon juice and cold weather clothing.</p>
<p>In one respect, Edward is glad that they haven’t been able to overwinter—he’s been spared the agony of the inescapable theatricals. Stage-managing is much more to his taste than acting. In the bustle of getting everything ready for this evening’s party, he hasn’t even had time to find a costume.</p>
<p>He reaches the great cabin and knocks at the door. “Come in,” James calls, but when Edward steps inside, he’s nowhere to be seen. The cabin is its usual mess, save for the one neatly organized table near the windows with Hooker’s microscope planted on it as a warning. Edward almost treads on a book that has slipped from a heap of volumes on one of the chairs—he picks it up, sighs as he sees that James has used a bunch of dried wattle to mark a page, and crosses the cabin to return it to his shelf. The ship's cat, fast asleep on a discarded coat nearby, doesn’t so much as twitch a whisker.</p>
<p>“There you are, Ned,” James says, and Edward jumps. James has put his dress on already: emerald green, so vibrant that even in the dim light of the cabin it practically glows. It’s enough to make Edward feel shabby, in his old weather-beaten coat and with his beard grown out scruffily for warmth. But he’d had enough of costumes in his youth—let James, who can actually carry it off, take center stage. “What do you think?” James asks as he sweeps across the room. “The one you pointed out was fetching enough, but I preferred this color.”</p>
<p>“And you were right,” Edward concedes. It looks well on him. Very well, as James surely knows. Truly, the man is distractingly handsome. “This once,” he adds, lest James think he can get into the habit of ignoring his advice.</p>
<p>“One day you’ll admit I have taste,” James laughs.</p>
<p>Bold words from the man who owns the two loudest waistcoats Edward has ever seen. But he’s forgetting why he’s here. He clears his throat. “Everything’s been made ready for this evening. The men have finished shifting the snow, Beeman is setting up a pub, and I’ve found some volunteers for the music.”</p>
<p>James nods crisply. “Very good, Mr. Bird. Carry on.”</p>
<p>“Sir,” Edward says with a grin, and turns to leave. He almost walks right into Francis, who has ducked into the cabin without knocking.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Ned,” Francis says distractedly, as he takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair. He’s in his dress uniform, and for once the sharp lines and gold braid don’t render him stiff and awkward—instead they almost suit him. Maybe it’s his smile, usually nowhere to be found on formal occasions. “I was looking for—” And he stops in the middle of the sentence, his mouth still open.</p>
<p>Edward busies himself with neatening the books on the nearest shelf, so that James and Francis won’t see his smirk. Behind him, Francis says in a mildly strangled voice, “You look lovely, James.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, old man,” James says. His tone is airy, but Edward, glancing over his shoulder, sees how his smile lights up his face, and feels a twinge of something wistful.</p>
<p>Time he was leaving, all things considered. There must be something else that needs seeing too—has James spoken to Abernethy about the guns? But James holds up a hand to stop him, and so Edward waits dutifully while he pours the three of them drinks. </p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” James says, imperious, as he hands the glasses round. Then, in a rush of earnestness, “I’m glad that you’re here with me. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have such old friends to rely on—”</p>
<p>“Old, is it?” Francis says with an amused growl, having recovered the power of speech. Then, more seriously, his face creasing into solemn lines, “It’s been a long journey from the old <i>Fury</i> to here.”</p>
<p>It’s <i>Fury</i> that Edward’s thinking of as well. The three of them huddled together backstage at the theatre their first year in the ice, passing a flask back and forth as proof against the chill—or at least that was the excuse, for Francis and Edward were shivering with stage-fright as much as cold. James, of course, acted like he was immune to both, even though he should have been freezing in his light dress, and let his hand rest on Francis’s whenever he thought Edward wasn’t looking.</p>
<p>Well, some things hadn’t changed. Never as subtle as they thought they were, his friends.</p>
<p>The memory warms him: he’s getting sentimental, perhaps, as the years go by. He smiles at the two of them—Francis and James, older and greyer but as constant as the stars—and raises his glass. “To another twenty years, then.”</p>
<p>“Hear, hear,” James says, and the three glasses chime as they meet.</p><hr/>
<p>Trying not to trip over his own dress or slip on the smooth carved-away path through the ice is all the more difficult while carrying a tray of drinks, but Alexander manages it well enough until he reaches the flat open space they’re calling the ballroom. Then he treads squarely on his hem—the dress, pretty as it is, had clearly been cut for a taller man—and wobbles alarmingly. Hooker dives towards him and manages to steady the tray, wincing as champagne sloshes over his wrists.</p>
<p>“All right there, Smith?” Davis asks. He and Lyall are with Hooker, as usual, standing around one of the flat seats carved out of the ice at the ballroom’s edges.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Alexander sighs, frowning at the boot-marks he’d left on the skirts. At least he hadn’t torn the dress, he thinks with a superstitious flinch. In any aspect besides its color it’s nothing like the dress Aubrey had been wearing when he’d first seen her, but still, that would have felt like an ill omen. He ought to have picked a different dress altogether, but he’d been feeling sentimental.</p>
<p>The Terrors have been less lucky with the contents of their costume trunk, it seems, and have dressed for warmth rather than spectacle. Little Davis is all but swallowed up by a huge hairy white blanket, while Lyall’s heavy boat cloak gives him a surprisingly sinister look. Or perhaps that’s just the way his beard is growing out.</p>
<p>Hooker hands him a drink, one of the glasses that had initially held punch but now, after their near spill, is probably equal parts champagne. Though who knew what was in the punch to start with—the boatswain had thrown himself into his role of publican a little too enthusiastically. Alexander takes a careful sip and starts to cough, feeling his eyes water. Davis claps him on the back.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Alexander says, setting the glass down. “What are you supposed to be?” he adds. The people milling around the ballroom are in a mix of costumes—dresses have proved popular—though the stodgier officers have kept their usual uniforms. </p>
<p>“Polar bear, I think.”</p>
<p>“Well, you look like a sheep.” Though he also looks warm—petticoats are hardly enough to keep out the chill, Alexander is realizing, and the dress’s neckline is cut low enough that he wishes he’d thought to find a shawl. Still, hard to deny the Erebites are the better-dressed lot. Especially if you included the captain. </p>
<p>Davis shrugs. “Better than Lyall, at least.” He elbows the surgeon, who glowers at him. “He’d have shown up in that ratty old coat of his if that opossum hadn’t been asleep on it.”</p>
<p>“It bit me,” Lyall grumbles, and Alexander winces sympathetically.</p>
<p>A distant gunshot cracks the air. Alexander doesn’t bother glancing round for its source—clearly the Doctor is too busy to join the festivities. Instead, he looks out over the ballroom again, trying to preserve the image in his mind so that he can put it in a letter to Aubrey. In the eternal light the ice gleams like… marble? But not. There’s no comparison for this, a ballroom on an ice floe in the wild southern ocean. The sea beneath their feet and all around them, and they’re about to dance a quadrille. He’s half expecting a penguin to walk by with a tray of refreshments.</p>
<p>The band strikes up a tune. A bit uneven at first—Hooker frowns at a missed note—but soon gaining in confidence. A swirl of color at the center of the ice: senior officers only, no room in the first dance for the poor drudges of the wardroom. Not that Alexander minds, honestly: if the ice proves too slick to dance on, he’d rather watch the lieutenants make fools of themselves than bruise his own knees.</p>
<p>Sure enough, it’s only a few minutes before old Bird’s feet skid out from under him as he and McMurdo turn. McMurdo catches him surprisingly gracefully—all the more so considering Bird has grabbed a handful of the other lieutenant’s dress in his struggle to keep upright—and Bird shuffles back to the dance with nothing injured besides his dignity. Alexander and his messmates applaud, not a little mockingly. </p>
<p>But besides that, the quadrille proceeds with surprisingly few mishaps. Perhaps it’s the grace of the lead couple. He’s heard the stories of Parry’s winter entertainments—maybe that’s why the two captains dance so beautifully even on the treacherous ice. “They look as pretty as a picture,” Davis says admiringly.</p>
<p>“They do,” Alexander agrees. “Nice to see Jemmy in a good mood.”</p>
<p>“Our dear delightful captain,” Hooker sighs. His eyebrows are drawn down again in a sulky frown. Alexander doesn’t know whether Hooker’s cross with him and his messmates for dragging him to the party instead of letting him sit peering through a microscope at tiny deep-sea creatures for hours on end, or with the captain for throwing a party at all. Well, the change will do him some good. </p>
<p>As the quadrille winds to an end, it’s Dr. Robertson’s turn to slip—poor Jack Sibbald isn’t as fast to react as McMurdo had been, and they both go down in a heap. Supremely indifferent to the chaos, Jemmy curtsies to his partner, and in return Crozier makes a surprisingly gallant bow and brings the captain’s hand to his lips.</p>
<p>Alexander whistles appreciatively, and Davis and Lyall cheer. Crozier glares at them, but Jemmy says something in his ear and his fierce expression softens into laughter. Feeling suitably abashed and hoping the party will soothe Crozier’s temper, Alexander reaches for his glass.</p>
<p>The band strikes up a new tune, a country dance. Robertson and Sibbald, having picked themselves back up, limp away from the dance floor, not looking at each other. The others mill about, swapping places.</p>
<p>Lyall clears his throat. “Fancy a dance, Hooker?”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Hooker blinks. “I, er—”</p>
<p>“Oh, go on,” Davis says, and gives him a shove. Hooker stumbles forward, Lyall hovering nervously at his side. Davis turns to Alexander with a grin. “Joining them?”</p>
<p>“Naturally,” Alexander replies, equally amused, and steps out into the ballroom on light feet.</p><hr/>
<p>“Enjoying the party?” James asks, his words a warm puff of breath against Francis’s ear. He’s sitting on Francis’s knee, one arm draped over Francis’s shoulders in a manner somewhere between companionable and possessive. The sofa that the sailors had carved for them from the ice is just too narrow for two men rather inclined to stoutness to sit side by side comfortably, hence James’s casual seat on Francis’s lap. That’s what they’ll tell anyone who comments on it, anyway. </p>
<p>“Very much,” Francis replies. As enjoyable as the dancing had been, he can’t deny that he prefers their current situation. He leans back slightly so that he has a better angle from which to admire James once more: his green skirts lapping over Francis’s legs, and his beautiful profile against the grey sky. With James’s face so close to his, it would be the work of a moment to press a kiss to his cheek or his ear or the tip of his nose, if he wished.</p>
<p>And oh, he wishes. But even amid the well-soused hilarity that the party has become, that might be a step too far.</p>
<p>So, for now, he’s content to sit with James leaning comfortably against his chest, resting his hand lightly on James’s knee and watching the junior officers stumbling through another dance. Bells and songs from the games on the other side of the berg mix with the odd collection of instruments providing their little orchestra. Not exactly Almack's, but the capering couples in their costumes and heavy boots are still a sight to be seen.</p>
<p>James’s hand brushes against his, the gentlest of touches. “One more dance, Frank dear?” It takes Francis a moment to catch the music—a waltz this time, a bit of a change from the sprightly country dances he’d been willing to sit out.</p>
<p>“If you’d do me the honor, Miss Ross,” Francis replies, smiling, and turns his wrist so that he can take James’s hand properly. His knees creak worryingly as he stands, and his back complains as well—a few hours of sitting on a block of ice would do that, he supposed. Not a midshipman anymore, however much tonight has sent his mind back to winters in the Arctic.</p>
<p>He’s never been a particularly accomplished dancer: not then, as poor Hoppner patiently tried to teach him to waltz, and not now, when he’s already had to apologize to Cunningham after stepping on his toes earlier in the evening. But it’s easier with James. It always has been. Francis sets his hand on James’s waist, feeling the green silk smooth under his fingers, and follows where he leads.</p>
<p>They’re cheek to cheek, almost, James’s overgrown hair tickling his ear. Francis is selfishly glad that James had picked a waltz, rather than the brisk patterns of a quadrille. He’ll never tire of feeling James in his arms. He shifts his hand, pulling James a little closer against him, and hears him hum contentedly beneath the music. </p>
<p>A snowball flies past them, scattering snow over Francis’s coat. Outside their own little universe, the dance has somehow degenerated into a melee, men red-faced and laughing and stumbling as they pelt each other with loose handfuls of snow. Sibbald gets hit in the face and falls over; another snowball strikes the man with the fiddle, and the music breaks off into confused clamor.</p>
<p>“Time we were leaving?” Francis asks, once he can speak without laughing. </p>
<p>“Very well,” James agrees, and slips his arm through Francis’s. They make it about five steps before the snowball fight sweeps them up as well. “Don’t let them get away!” someone shouts—it’s Ned, the traitor—and a hail of snowballs follows them. James gathers up his skirts and breaks into a run, and Francis matches his pace rather than drop his arm; they slip and skid over the ice, dodging snowballs, clutching at each other to keep from falling, as the others whoop and laugh.</p>
<p>By the time they stop, they’ve left the party far behind and are on a quiet bit of the berg below <i>Erebus</i>’s bow. James leans on Francis’s shoulder as they both get their breath back—he’s still laughing, his dark eyes merry.</p>
<p>There are snowflakes in his hair, catching the polar light. Francis reaches out and brushes them away. He lets his hand linger in James’s wild curls, then trails his fingers down the side of his face in order to cup the soft curve of his jaw. Brushes his thumb lightly over James’s cheekbone, where the evening’s mirth has brought out the color. James leans into the touch and brings his own hand up to rest at the back of Francis’s neck. A little pressure brings their foreheads together, and they stay like that for a long moment. James’s skin is shockingly cold.</p>
<p>Affection wells up in Francis until he feels his skin can hardly contain it. He shifts so that he can get a better look at James’s dear round face—and so James’s kiss catches him just at the corner of his mouth, clumsy and sweet. Francis’s breath seizes in his chest; he angles his face towards James’s and kisses him more deeply, like he’s ached to all evening. Chasing the warmth in James’s mouth, which opens eagerly under his. James’s skirts swirl around Francis’s legs as they lean into each other. </p>
<p>“Dear Frank,” James murmurs. “How I love you.”</p>
<p>Francis kisses him again in answer, nipping at James’s lower lip, and feels James shiver against him. The thought thrills him, but as James keeps shivering, his delight turns to worry. James’s hand moves at the nape of his neck, dipping inside his collar, and Francis tries not to flinch at how icy his fingers are. “You’re freezing,” he says, fretful. </p>
<p>“Well,” James replies, entirely too self-satisfied, “I suppose you’ll have to warm me up.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I see through your clever plan,” Francis grouses, even as he steps back and unbuttons his coat so that he can drape it over James’s shoulders. It’s an awkward fit, resting oddly over the dress’s large sleeves. Francis arranges it as best he can, and beneath the heavy fabric his hand wanders from James’s shoulder to brush across his collarbone and rest in the hollow of his throat, tracing skin he’s mapped with his fingers and his mouth until it’s more familiar than his own.</p>
<p>The noise James makes is half a gasp and half a laugh. “You’re incorrigible, Frank.”</p>
<p>“And you’re lovely. Can you blame me?”</p>
<p>James’s cheeks, already rosy, redden further, and Francis’s heart sings in his breast. And he knows that they’ve been standing here too long, that they should get out of the cold, that someone could walk by and wonder what the captains are doing off by themselves like this—but he doesn’t resist as James tightens his fingers in his hair and pulls him close for another kiss.</p><hr/>
<p>They’re far from quiet, as they make their way to James’s cabin—but <i>Erebus</i> is all but empty, and Dr. McCormick, down below studiously dissecting a penguin, doesn’t hear.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Historical notes:</b><br/>Details of the new year's party drawn from J.E. Davis's <i>Letter from the Antarctic</i> (1901), William Cunningham's journal (ed. Richard Campbell, 2009), Cornelius Sullivan's letter to James Savage (ed. Ann Savours, 1960), and Joseph Dalton Hooker's <a href="https://jdhooker.kew.org/p/jdh/asset/1753">April 1842 letter</a> to his sister Elizabeth.</p>
<p>Alexander Smith met his future wife Sarah Aubrey Read, called Aubrey by her family, in Van Diemen's Land in 1841, and wrote to her throughout the expedition's next two seasons in the Antarctic. (John Ramsland, <i>From Antarctica to the Gold Rushes in the Wake of the</i> Erebus, 2011.)</p>
<p>Hooker mentions HMS <i>Terror</i>'s pet opossum in <a href="https://jdhooker.kew.org/p/jdh/asset/1757">another of his letters to his sister</a>. </p>
<p>I've seen different spellings for the junior officers' nickname for Ross—Hooker spells it "Jemmy" in his letters to Smith (as quoted in Ramsland, <i>From Antarctica to the Gold Rushes</i>) and Davis spells it "Jimmy" in his letters to Hooker (as quoted in M.J. Ross, <i>Ross in the Antarctic</i>). There may be a transcription problem there—either way, I've gone with the former solely because I find it funnier. Hooker refers to "my dear delightful Capt. R." in a <a href="https://www.darwinproject.ac.uk/letter/DCP-LETT-928.xml">November 1845 letter</a> to Charles Darwin.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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